


Oof, Right In The Memories I Really Don't Want To Deal With Right Now

by 0ddsocks



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Grimdark rose mentions/references, im not sure if there's anything to warn you about but if there is please let me know!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0ddsocks/pseuds/0ddsocks
Summary: You open your eyes... Then open them again.No matter how many times you've done this it still perplexes you every time. You detest to admit it but you've began to become suspicious of wether or not you're awake or... Whatever this is.





	Oof, Right In The Memories I Really Don't Want To Deal With Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> A little Drabble I've been thinking about for a while now

You open your eyes... Then open them again.  
No matter how many times you've done this it still perplexes you every time. You detest to admit it but you've began to become suspicious of wether or not you're awake or... Whatever this is. 

The bed may be there but it feels like clouds beneath your fingers as you turn to stare at the figure sitting beside you. A pang of guilt hits you as you released you must've fallen asleep on her. As you worry over this a cold, trickling sensation arises on the back of your neck, making you shiver. As it lazily falls down your back the scene melts away. The ceiling pools into the floor, the large heavy door crumbling, the clutter awash as your floor all muddies together. 

Yet she stays... If only for a moment. The flame to your moth as always, so warm and inviting your heart aches. 

Swallowing away that feeling you close your eyes tight. Maybe it's just some odd dream laced with metaphors and similes. The soft ticking of the broken and battered clock fades as does the hum of the vent to be replaced with the resounding din of silence of open space as you fall through the cracks. 

Light is unforgiving. Harsh, prying... Invasive. Shinning out into the darkness of uncertainty to only show more, even darker spaces. What you don't know is out there in the dark can kill you but the knowledge of what it is exactly will eat up at you slowly and surely, making you regret ever daring to ask the question "why?".  
Light is unforgiving.  
Knowledge is cruel.  
Your mouth burns and you know exactly where you are.  
Light does not forget so easily. 

You refuse to open your eyes, squeezing them tighter shut as your fists bunch up in that raggedy dress. The wind howls but you do not look. Your stomach drops and you do not look. That awful awful bile and cries of how unfair the world had to be threaten to rip at your throat but you still don't look.  
Light may be inevitable but darkness can lend a comforting hand once in a while.  
This is a dream, you tell yourself, just a dream.  
Glass breaks beneath a tender foot.  
... A very vivid dream.  
The glass continues to break for a moment longer, each harsh crunch swatting at your staggering self control. 

You don't look.  
You can't look.  
That sludge begins to crawl it's way back up your throat, bringing with it vile words and childish cries.  
You told yourself you wouldn't look.  
Told yourself that that restraint would finally prove your maturity.  
That familiar smell of lavender and liquorice reaches your nose and you tell yourself you are not going to cry. You can practically feel her in front of you now, generously, for once, not saying a word. 

Your hands clench and unclench, nose tingling, throat burning. 

You open your eyes and let the light of a warm spring day filter in. The skies are dark and dreary, the wind no longer howling, the balcony large and free of clutter, bar the two of you standing there. 

You don't look her in the face.  
"Hiya, sweetie." She greets after a while. You can hear that falsetto maternal fondness behind those words and it makes you want to forgo those bile like words. 

"You're lookin' a bit odd." She adds after a while, insincere chuckle ringing at the end of her words like a bell.  
"Your hair looks nice. All swooshy." She chatters on like she cares, "Like some front page on a throw away fashion magazine."  
"Not sure about the smog all billowin' around you." Your teeth grind, like she'd even give two shits about your respiratory system. 

And then it happens. The one thing you'd wished upon every single star in that inky space you'd been hurtling through for months on end now. 

She pulls you into a hug, carefully delicate at first before quickly turning into a tight and unnerving one. You stiffen, your arms going ridged under her touch. Your breathing begins to get unsteady as you take rushed and shallow breath after rushed and shallow breath. That awful coldness at the back of your neck returns. 

"Missed you, pumpkin." She murmurs. 

=> switch players.

For not the first and certainly not the last time she wakes in a worried state, spluttering black sludge. All you can do is stay with her in that cold room of mess and wool and hold her hand.


End file.
